The Darkest Hour

Chapter 6

Twilight was thickening the shadows under the trees by the time Firestar and Cinderpelt slipped down the ravine toward the camp entrance. They had slept in the barn with Barley and Ravenpaw until the sun was well above the horizon, and feasted again on plump mice before they set off for their own territory. Though Firestar was tired, some of the horror of his dream was fading, and he was looking forward to seeing his Clan mates again.

At first the new leader emerged unnoticed from the gorse tunnel with Cinderpelt. Whitestorm and Brackenfur were sitting together near the nettle patch, finishing off some fresh-kill, while three of the apprentices wrestled playfully outside their den. Firestar picked out the dark tabby pelt of his own apprentice, Bramblepaw, and reminded himself to get him back onto a strict training schedule as soon as he could. There was no reason why leadership duties should prevent him from mentoring the young cat—after all, Bluestar had been a diligent mentor to him.

He was padding over to Whitestorm when he heard his name yowled loudly, and turned to see Ashpaw racing across the clearing from the elders’ den. The apprentice’s gray fur was bristling with excitement. “Fireheart—no, Firestar! You’re back!”

His noisy greeting alerted the rest of the Clan and soon they were pressing around Firestar, calling him by his new name and welcoming him home. Firestar wanted to give himself up to the uncomplicated enjoyment of their warm fur pressed against his, but he could not ignore the awe in their eyes as they gazed at him. He felt a sharp pang in his heart as he was reminded yet again of the new distance between himself and the rest of his Clan.

“Did you really see StarClan?” asked Fernpaw, her eyes wide.

“I really did,” Firestar replied. “But I’m not allowed to say anything about the ceremony.”

Fernpaw didn’t look disappointed. Her eyes brimming with admiration, she turned to Dustpelt and meowed, “I bet he’s going to be a great leader!”

“He’d better be,” replied Dustpelt; his love for Fernpaw wouldn’t let him argue with her, even though Firestar was well aware that he had never been Dustpelt’s favorite cat. But the brown-coated warrior gave him a nod of respect, and Firestar knew that Dustpelt’s loyalty to the warrior code would en sure his support.

“It’s good to see you back,” meowed Graystripe, shouldering through the warriors to reach Firestar’s side. At least he seemed to have recovered from the awe he’d felt when Bluestar had named Firestar leader as she lay dying. No w his yellow eyes were filled with friendship and sympathy. “You look like a fox that’s been dead for a moon. Was it tough?”

“It was,” Firestar murmured, just for Graystripe’s ears, but Cloudtail caught what he had said.

“It’s only your belief in ancient traditions that makes you think you can’t be leader without dragging all the way up to Highstones and back. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve already proved yourself to be the true leader of this Clan, Firestar.”

Firestar gave his kin a hard stare; he was grateful for Cloudtail’s loyalty and respect, but felt as frustrated as ever that the younger cat did not share his beliefs. He wished he could tell the white warrior exactly what he had experienced, if only to shock him into respect for StarClan, but he knew that was impossible.

“Shh! The ancient traditions still matter.” The quiet rebuke came from Lostface, who had come to join Cloudtail. She licked his ear and added, “StarClan watch over us all.”

Cloudtail returned the lick, his tongue passing gently over the injured side of Lostface’s face. Firestar’s annoyance faded. He couldn’t help admiring Cloudtail’s unwavering devotion to Lostface in spite of her terrible injuries. His kin might be difficult and hotheaded, with little respect for the warrior code, but he had brought this young cat back from the brink of death and given her a reason to live.

As the welcoming cats began to disperse, Firestar caught the eye of Whitestorm, who had greeted him and then backed off a pace or two, waiting to speak.

“How are things in camp?” Firestar asked. “Was there any trouble while I was away?”

“Not a thing,” the senior warrior reported. “We’ve patrolled the whole territory, and there’s no sign of dogs or of ShadowClan.”

“Good,” Firestar mewed. Glancing at the well-stocked fresh-kill pile, he added, “I see some cats have been hunting.”

“Sandstorm took a patrol out, and Mousefur and Brackenfur put the apprentices to work,” replied Whitestorm. “Bramblepaw is a skillful hunter. I lost count of how much prey he brought in.”

“Good,” Firestar repeated. His plea sure in hearing his apprentice praised was tempered by the uneasiness he always felt when Tigerstar’s son was mentioned. Tigerstar had been a good hunter too, but that had not stopped him from becoming a murderer and a traitor.

Cinderpelt came up to him again. “I’m off to my den,” she meowed. “Call me if you want anything. Have you remembered that you need to appoint a deputy before moonhigh?”

Firestar nodded. Other duties had been more urgent, but now he needed to give this decision serious thought. Because she had been so shocked by Tigerstar’s treachery and exile, Bluestar had made Firestar’s own appointment a day late, without the proper ceremony. The Clan had been terrified that StarClan would be angry, and that had made things very difficult for Firestar. He was determined not to make the same mistake with his own deputy.

Watching Cinderpelt limping across the clearing to her den, Firestar realized that so far two cats had not come to greet him. One was Darkstripe; that did not surprise him. The other was Sandstorm, and that disturbed him. Had he done something to make her angry?

Then Firestar spotted her a few tail-lengths away, watching him with an uncharacteristically diffident air. Her green eyes flickered toward him and away again as he padded over to her.

“Sandstorm,” he mewed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Firestar.” She didn’t meet his gaze, but looked down at her paws. “It’s good to have you back.”

Now Firestar was certain something was wrong. He had been looking forward all the long journey home to lying beside Sandstorm in the warriors’ den, to sharing tongues with her and catching up on her news. But he would not be able to do that again. From now on he would sleep alone in Bluestar’s old den—his den now—underneath the Highrock.

And with that realization came understanding of what was troubling Sandstorm. For all her confidence when he left the camp, she was not at ease with him now. “Mouse-brain,” he purred affectionately, pressing his muzzle against hers. “I’m still the same cat. Nothing has changed.”

“Everything’s changed!” Sandstorm insisted. “You’re Clan leader now.”

“And you’re still the best hunter and the most beautiful cat in the Clan,” Firestar assured her. “You’ll always be special to me.”

“But you…you’re so far away,” meowed Sandstorm, unconsciously echoing Firestar’s own fears. “You’re closer to Cinderpelt now than anyone else. You both know secrets about StarClan that ordinary warriors don’t.”

“Cinderpelt’s our medicine cat,” Firestar replied. “And she’s one of the best friends I have. But she’s not you, Sandstorm. I know things are difficult right now. There’s so much I have to do to take over the Clan…especially after what Tigerstar tried to do with the pack of dogs. But in a few days we’ll be able to go out on patrol together, just like we used to.”

To his relief he felt Sandstorm relax, and some of the uncertainty faded from her eyes. “You’ll need an evening patrol,” she mewed. Her voice was crisp, more like the old Sandstorm, though Firestar guessed she was covering up her unhappiness. “Shall I round up some cats and go?”

“Good idea.” Firestar tried to match her businesslike manner. “Go and have a sniff around Sunningrocks. Make sure RiverClan haven’t been up to their old tricks.” It would be just like Leopardstar, the ambitious leader of RiverClan, to try to claim the long-disputed territory while ThunderClan was shaken by the loss of Bluestar.

“Right.” Sandstorm hurried off toward the nettle patch, where Brackenfur and Lo n g tail were eating. Br a c k en f u r called to his apprentice, Tawnypaw, and all four cats headed for the gorse tunnel.

Firestar made his way toward the leader’s den. He still couldn’t think of it as his own, and he found himself missing his comfy patch of moss in the warriors’ den even more sharply. Before he reached it, he heard his name being called and turned to see Graystripe hurrying after him.

“Firestar, I wanted to tell you—” He broke off as if he were embarrassed.

“What’s the problem?”

“Well…” Graystripe hesitated and then went on in a rush: “I don’t know if you were thinking of choosing me to be your deputy, but I wanted to say that you don’t have to. I know I haven’t been back in the Clan long enough, and some cats still don’t trust me. I won’t be hurt if you pick another cat.”

Firestar felt a pang of regret. He would have chosen Graystripe above all other cats to hunt and fight by his side, and to give him the special support that a deputy gave the Clan leader. But it was true that he could not choose Graystripe so soon after his friend’s return from RiverClan. Though Firestar himself had no doubt of his friend’s loyalty to ThunderClan, Graystripe still had to prove himself before the rest of the Clan would accept him.

Leaning forward, Firestar touched noses with his friend. “Thank you, Graystripe,” he mewed. “I’m glad you understand.”

Graystripe shrugged, more embarrassed than ever. “I just wanted to say.” He turned and vanished through the branches of the warrior’s den.

Firestar felt choked with emotion and shook himself briskly. Padding around the Highrock to the den entrance, he heard movement inside. Thornpaw, the oldest apprentice, whirled around as Firestar went in.

“Oh Firestar!” he exclaimed. “Whitestorm told me to fetch you some new bedding—and some fresh-kill.” He flicked his tail to the far side of the den, where a rabbit lay beside a thick pile of moss and heather.

“That looks great, Thornpaw,” Firestar meowed. “Thank you—and thank Whitestorm for me.”

The ginger apprentice dipped his head and started to leave, only to halt as Firestar called him back.

“Remind Mousefur to have a word with me tomorrow,” Firestar mewed, naming Thornpaw’s mentor. “It’s about time we started thinking about your warrior ceremony.” It’s long overdue, he reflected. Thornpaw had proved himself an able apprentice, and would have been a warrior moons ago but for Bluestar’s reluctance to trust any of her Clan. He was the only one left of the group that had included Swiftpaw and Lostface, neither of whom would ever experience a warrior ceremony.

Thornpaw’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Yes, Firestar! Thanks!” he meowed, and dashed off.

Firestar settled himself in the mossy nest and took a few mouthfuls of the rabbit. It had been thoughtful of Whitestorm to have the bedding changed, though Firestar still felt that Bluestar’s scent lingered in the very walls of the den. Perhaps it always would, and that was no bad thing. There was pain in his memories of her, but comfort too, w h en he thought of her wisdom and her courage in leading her Clan.

Shadows gathered around him as the last of the light died. Firestar was acutely conscious of being completely alone for the first time since joining the Clan: no warmth of other cats sleeping close by, no soft meows and purrs as his friends shared tongues, no gentle snoring or the sound of cats shifting in their dreams. For a few heartbeats he felt lonelier than ever.

Then he told himself to stop being so mouse-brained. He had an important decision to make, and it was vital for ThunderClan that he get it right. His choice of deputy would affect the life of the Clan for seasons to come.

Settling deeper into the moss, he wondered whether he ought to sleep now, and ask Spottedleaf in a dream which cat would be the right deputy. He closed his eyes and almost at once he caught a trace of Spottedleaf’s sweet scent. But no vision came; he could see only darkness.

Then he heard a whisper in his ear, filled with Spottedleaf’s gentle teasing. “Oh, no, Firestar. This is your decision.”

Sighing, Firestar opened his eyes again. “All right, Spottedleaf,” he mewed aloud. “I’ll decide.”

The deputy could not be Graystripe, that was clear, and Firestar was grateful to his friend for making that part of his choice easy for him. He let his mind drift over the other possible cats. The new deputy would have to be experienced, and a d never been questioned. Sandstorm was brave and intelligent, and choosing her would reassure her more than anything else that Firestar still valued her and wanted her at his side.

But that was not the right reason to choose a deputy. Besides, the warrior code dictated that no cat could be deputy without having been a mentor first. Sandstorm had never had an apprentice, so Firestar could not choose her. With a prickle of shame, he recognized that that was his own fault, because he had given Tawnypaw to Brackenfur to mentor, even though Sandstorm had been the obvious choice. He had done it to protect her, afraid that the mentors of Tigerstar’s kits would be in danger from their bloodthirsty father. It had taken Sandstorm a long time to forgive him, and Firestar hoped she would never realize that his previous mistake had prevented her from being deputy now.

But was Sandstorm really the right choice anyway? Surely there was one cat who towered over all the other possibilities? Whitestorm was experienced, wise, and brave. When Firestar had been made deputy, he had shown not a scrap of the resentment that a lesser cat might have felt. He had supported him from the beginning, and he was the cat Firestar naturally turned to when he needed advice. He was old, yes, but still strong and active. There were a good few moons left before he would be joining the elders in their den.

Bluestar would approve, too, for the white warrior’s friendship had meant a great deal to her in her last moons.

Yes, Firestar thought. Whitestorm will be the new deputy. He stretched in satisfaction. All that remained was to announce the decision to the Clan.

Firestar waited for a while, finishing the rabbit, drowsing but not letting himself fall into deep sleep in case he missed moonhigh. Silver light seeped into the den as the moon rose. Eventually he got to his paws, shook the scraps of moss from his fur, and padded out into the clearing.

Several of the Clan were pacing among the ferns at the edge, obviously waiting for the announcement. Sandstorm and the evening patrol had returned and were eating their share of the fresh-kill. Firestar flicked his tail in greeting to the ginger she-cat, but did not go over to speak to her. Instead he sprang up onto the Highrock and yowled, “Let all cats old enough to catch their own prey join here beneath the Highrock for a Clan meeting.”

His summons was still ringing in the air when more cats began to appear, slipping from the shelter of their dens or padding into the moonlight from the shadows around the edges of the camp. Firestar saw Darkstripe stalk into the open and sit a few tail-lengths away from the rock, his tail wrapped around his paws and a scornful look in his eyes. Unobtrusively, Brackenfur followed him and took up a position close by.

Bramblepaw emerged from the apprentices’ den; Firestar couldn’t help wondering if he would go over to Darkstripe, but he stayed with his sister, Tawnypaw, near the edge of the gathering crowd. The eyes of both apprentices were watchful, flicking back and forth. As Mousefur walked past them she snapped at Tawnypaw, and the younger she-cat turned her head away sharply, as if she and Mousefur had disagreed over something. Tawnypaw was bright and very confident, Firestar reflected; he wouldn’t be surprised if she offended the experienced warriors now and then.

Sandstorm and Graystripe were sitting together near the rock, close to Cloudtail and Lostface, and the elders all came out in a group and settled down in the center of the clearing.

Firestar saw Whitestorm strolling over from the nettle patch with Cinderpelt. There was no air of anticipation about him as he stopped for a quick word with Fernpaw and Ashpaw before taking his own place beside the Highrock.

Swallowing his nervousness, Firestar began. “The time has come to appoint a new deputy.” Pausing, he felt the presence of Bluestar very close to him as he remembered the ritual words she used to speak. “I say these words before StarClan,” he continued, “that the spirits of our ancestors may hear and approve my choice.”

By now all the cats had turned their faces up to him; he looked down at their eyes gleaming in the moonlight and could almost taste their excitement.

“Whitestorm will be the new deputy of ThunderClan,” he announced.

For a heartbeat there was silence. Whitestorm was blinking up at Firestar, a look of pleasure and surprise spreading over his face. Firestar realized that the surprise was part of what he liked so much about the old warrior; Whitestorm had never assumed that he would be the one chosen.

Slowly he rose to his paws. “Firestar, cats of ThunderClan,” he meowed, “I never expected to be given this honor. I swear by StarClan that I will do all I can to serve you.”

As he finished speaking, sound gradually swelled from the assembled cats, a mixture of yowls and purrs and voices calling, “Whitestorm!” All the Clan began to press around the white warrior, congratulating him. Firestar knew that he had made a very popular choice.

For a few moments he remained on the Highrock and watched. A new feeling of optimism surged through his paws, filling him with confidence and warmth. He had his nine lives; he had the best deputy a cat could wish for; and he had a team of warriors who were ready to face anything. The threat of the pack was over: Firestar had to believe that soon they would be able to drive Tigerstar out of the forest for good.

Then, just as he was poised to leap down and offer his own good wishes to Whitestorm, he caught sight of Darkstripe. He alone of all the cats had not moved or spoken. He was staring up at Firestar, and his eyes burned with cold fire.

Firestar was instantly reminded of the dreadful vision in the ceremony, the hill of bones and the tide of blood that had flowed from it. Bluestar’s words rang in his ears again: Four will become two. Lion and tiger will meet in battle, and blood will rule the forest.

Firestar still did not know what the prophecy meant, but the words were laden with doom. There would be battle and bloodshed. And in Darkstripe’s malignant stare, Firestar seemed to see the first cloud that would eventually unleash the storm of war.